gxhana

[gxhana]

Diary Entry of a Sub!Yandere #2

Warnings: self degradation, disgusting, yandere, submission, stalking, dom f!reader, violence, violent thoughts, blood play, knife play

4:00 am Thursday

I want her to ruin me in ways that would make God look away. I imagine her on top of me, hips grinding down me, her thighs slick with my blood where she’s carved little trophies into my skin. She’d ride me slow at first just to feel me twitch inside her, then faster as the knife in her hand starts its work. A shallow cut along my ribs. A deeper one down my chest. She’d moan as the blood wells up, licking her lips before bending to suck it straight from the wound. “You taste better than you look,” she’d whisper, and I’d come so hard my vision whites out. But she wouldn’t stop. No, she’d keep going, slicing, fucking, taking me apart piece by piece. My skin under her nails. My pulse under her tongue. My screams muffled by her kiss as she sinks the blade in to the hilt and twists. I can see it so clearly, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, her breath ragged, her fingers working me open in every way possible. I’d beg. Not for mercy. For more. "Cut deeper," I’d gasp. "I want to feel you in my marrow." She’d smile then, all teeth, and push the knife in just a little farther. I touch myself every night to the thought of it. Fucking my fist until it’s bruised, imagining it’s her hand inside me instead, fingers curling around bone. I want her to crack me open and drink whatever’s left. I want her to ruin me so completely that even the ghosts flinch when they see what she’s done. I leave my stories at her door, each one bloodier than the last. One day, she’ll read them. One day, she’ll come to make them real.

[gxhana]

Diary Entry of a Sub!Yandere

Warnings: self degradation, disgusting, yandere, submission, stalking, dom f!reader, violence, violent thoughts.

3:47 AM The walls are listening again.

Y/N,

I smelled your shampoo through the vents again. I think it's citrus — lemon rind? — but maybe it's just the rot inside me interpreting your scent as something clean. God, how I ache to be touched by your world. Not gently. Brutally. I want you to peel me open like spoiled fruit, let the black pulp (my gut) inside spill out at your feet. Step in it. Smear it. Use it.

Every time I hear you walking below me — it’s like you're pacing inside my lungs. Each footstep a knock against my ribs. I want to scream through the floorboards, beg you to come upstairs and see the ruin you’ve made of me. But I don't want you to love me. No. That would be too kind. I want you to hurt me. Like an infection infects the flesh.

I saw your shadow through the keyhole today. I licked the brass. It tasted like heat and blood and old coins. I imagined it was your knee. I imagined biting it. Just to see if you’d bruise.

Please, open me up, Y/N.

I don’t mean that metaphorically. I want you to take my fingers and peel them apart, split the skin at the seams, crack each bone like a wishbone. Pry my ribs open like rusted shutters, force your hands into the wet mess of me. Find the hollow where your name rots stamped in pus, carved in bile. Choke on the stench of what festered inside me while you were gone. Let it fill your throat, black and thick. I want you to heave. I want you to tremble. I want you to stay.

Sometimes I imagine hiding under your bed. Not watching, not touching—just breathing. Just waiting for the moment you sense me there. That sudden chill, that shiver. Isn’t that love? Fear wearing a pretty disguise.

I would eat your bones if it meant keeping you close. I would suck the marrow from them like syrup from a broken bottle. And if you asked me to — even once — I would rip out my tongue and give it to you so you’d never have to hear my voice again, only read me. Word by word.

I am yours. Not in the romantic way. In the fungal way. You are the damp wood. I am the bloom of decay spreading in the dark.

Please. Come. Open me.

Pt. 2

[gxhana]

The Last Embrace (Oneshot!)

Pairings: Boyf!Dean Winchester X Girlf!Fem Reader

Summary: You slowly die in Dean's arms.

The forest is quiet now.

Too quiet.

Not long ago, it echoed with gunshots and snarls—branches breaking underfoot, the hiss of silver through air. But now it’s just you and Dean, and the scent of pine and blood.

Your blood.

You’re lying on your back in the undergrowth, the forest floor damp beneath you, cold seeping up through your bones. Above you, the trees sway gently in the moonlight, their long fingers cradling the sky. And Dean… Dean is kneeling over you, hands stained crimson, breath ragged in his throat.

“No, no, no—don’t you do this,” he growls, more to himself than to you. His voice is raw, cracking like the broken branches around you. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just—just hold on, sweetheart, please.”

You try to speak, but it hurts. Everything hurts. Your stomach is a mangled mess, the claws of that thing, whatever it was having torn through armor and skin like wet paper. You can’t feel your legs. Can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Your lips part anyway. “Dean…”

He shushes you immediately, one bloodied hand cradling your cheek. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. Sam’s coming. He’s calling Cas. We’ll fix this, just like we always do.”

But even he doesn’t believe it. You see it in his eyes the way they are glistening. He’s hurt too, you noticed it, the raw gash along his arm, the way he winced when he moved. But he didn’t flinch when you did. His wound, no matter how deep, paled in comparison to yours. You were the one bleeding, and in that moment, nothing else in the world could possibly matter more to him.

“You’re bleeding,” you rasp, lifting your hand weakly to the gash on his shoulder.

“I don’t care,” he whispers, pulling your hand to his chest. Holding it like it means everything. “I don’t care about me. I just need you. I can’t, I can’t lose you.”

You can smell the earth, the moss, the fading smoke from Dean’s shotgun. The world should feel cruel right now, but it doesn’t. Not with him holding you like this.

“Hey,” you say, voice faint as a breeze. “You remember that night in Tennessee? Cabin by the lake. I made chili and burned it.”

Dean lets out a breath half-laugh, half-sob. “Yeah. And you made me eat it anyway.”

“You said it was the best thing you ever tasted.”

He smiles, the real kind, though it trembles. “It was. Because you made it.”

Your fingers twitch in his. “I’m scared,” you admit, and it breaks something in him.

“I know, baby.” His forehead presses to yours, warm and shaking. “But I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”

You close your eyes.

The stars are hidden now, swallowed by branches and the dark.

“I love you,” you whisper. You taste blood when you say it.

And he says it back like a promise, like a prayer: “I love you. Always. You hear me? Always.”

Your breath comes slower. Shallower.

The forest listens, silent.

And then you’re still.

Dean stays there long after the night, rocking you, whispering things you’ll never hear. He can't accept the fact that life is slipping from you.

The world doesn’t stop when you die.

The wind still weaves through the pine branches like breath through a sleeping chest. But Dean sits in the dirt, motionless, with your head in his lap and his heart in ruins.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

At first, he just holds you, arms wrapped too tightly around your body like he can press the life back into you through sheer will. He’s murmuring your name, telling you it's okay, that help is coming, that Cas and Sam will be here any second now and fix this. Just like always.

But your hand goes slack in his.

Your chest stops rising.

Your eyes—God, your eyes don’t close all the way.

His voice falters. Then stops.

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no, no…”

He presses his ear to your chest. Silence. Not even an echo.

He shakes you gently, then harder. “C’mon, don’t do this. Don’t --you can’t be gone, you don’t get to leave me.”

But you’re not answering anymore.

He lets out a sound that’s barely human—raw, guttural, the kind of noise that comes from a soul being torn apart. His arms tighten around you as if the earth might try to take you from him. He buries his face into your shoulder, into your blood-soaked jacket, inhaling you like maybe if he breathes you in deep enough, he can keep a part of you alive inside him.

“I was right here,” he gasps. “I was right here, and I still couldn’t save you.”

His hands trembling as he brushed the dirt from her cheek. He leaned over you, his forehead touched hers for a moment, and then he kissed her, not soft or hesitant, but fiercely. It wasn’t gentle because his heart was breaking. It was full of everything he never said, everything he wished he could still say. His lips pressed hard against hers, as if he could pour life back into her, as if he could make her stay. It was a desperate, aching kiss, one that came from deep love and deep pain. He kissed her like he was trying to hold on, even though he already knew he’d lost her.

Time dissolves.

Sam finds him hours later, kneeling in the same spot, dirt smeared across his face, his knees soaked through with your blood. He doesn’t look up when Sam calls his name. Doesn’t speak when Cas arrives and lays a hand on his shoulder. He just keeps holding you. Rocking.

There’s no battlefield. No monster left to kill.

Only silence.

And Dean, alone in the woods, clutching the only person who ever made the war feel worth fighting.

Later that night, when they’ve taken your body back to the bunker, Dean sits in your room.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. Just sits on your bed, holding the flannel you used to sleep in, the one that still smells like pine and leather and something only you.

He finally speaks again, low and hoarse, to no one.

“I promised I’d protect you.”

The silence answers.

He laughs bitterly—just once—and then the tears come. Quiet, broken, not the kind he ever lets anyone see. He presses the shirt to his face, and for a moment, he lets himself fall apart in the dark.

And in that room filled with your things, your memories, your laugh echoing faintly in his mind… Dean mourns the only home he ever found, somewhere he could be himself and something that prevented him from falling apart. Now, with it gone, he stands in the silence it left behind, aching not just for what he lost, but for who he was when he had it.

[gxhana]

⁀➴𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐏𝐞𝐧 (Pt. 1)

╰┈➤The First Time I Saw Her

Author's note: This is not a love story. It’s a descent—into hunger, control, and the beauty of shared, irreversible ruin. It is not for everyone. Reader discretion is strongly advised throughout.

Pairings: Writer Dark!Pedro Pascal X ObsessedSerial Killer f! Reader

Summary: A reclusive writer and a surgical serial killer become entangled in a dark, obsessive relationship. Through blood and books they stalk, seduce, and rewrite each other—literally and psychologically. Reality blurs as violence becomes intimacy, and their love story unfolds like a novel destined to end in death.

Warnings: Taboo Themes, Dark Romance, Graphic Violence Gore, Psychological Horror, Erotic Obsession, Power Play, Body Horror, Medical Imagery, Cannibalistic Themes, Stalking, Surveillance, Voyeurism, Self-Harm & Mutilation, Sexual Content with Violent Undertones, Distorted Relationship Dynamics, Degradation Mental Health Themes, Identity erasure through obsession.

Pedro Pascal, a reclusive writer, dwells in the shadows of his own mind, crafting sensually disturbing and taboo literature centered on dominant, morally complex women. Once lauded for his raw, transgressive storytelling, but the world moved on. Now, his books sit forgotten, gathering dust on shelves tucked away in corners—shelves no one looks at anymore. Pedro is not merely withdrawn; he is consumed. Every look he gives, every sentence he writes, feels like a quiet cry for someone to see him. Not through kindness, but through something rougher. Closer. Through the violence of intimacy. Pedro doesn’t want to be loved. He wants to be known. Completely. Even if it ruins him.

He was lost in his ritualistic solitude—until she appeared, the enigmatic woman below, waking a dark side in him he had never wanted to see.

1st Person (Pedro's POV)

The corridor smelled like old varnish and metal dust. That faint hospital-rot stench of a building too proud to collapse and too tired to stand. I’ve always hated this hour—too much light, too much breath in the air. The world’s too awake at noon. I’m not.

But the magazine had been delayed. Two weeks. Obsidian Nocturne—my favorite, my vice. It’s printed on thick matte pages just how I like it. All ink and erotic decay. I couldn’t wait any longer.

So I went down. Bare feet in sandals. Linen pants I hadn’t ironed since winter. My shirt buttoned wrong—one too high, one too low. I didn’t fix it. I don’t fix small things.

The stairwell creaked under me. It always does. It has arthritis in its bones, like the rest of this rotting place.

The box screeched when I opened it. I liked that sound. Dust fell from the hinge like skin powder. And there it was—wrapped in brown paper, taped twice, the words Obsidian Nocturne stamped. I tucked it under my arm.

And turned.

At first, I thought the afternoon air had become windy or so I thought.

But it was her.

Halfway up the stairs. Still. Holding a black coat and a stack of moving boxes like they were made of air. She was beautiful in the way knives gleamed in opera lighting. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The hallway bent around her.

Something inside me shifted. It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t desire. It was interruption.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask who she was. I walked past her, because that’s what I do when something pierces too deep. I went up the stairs. But I felt her eyes.

I felt them the way you feel water just before it boils. (Just like water heats up and gets restless right before it boils, the feeling is tense, charged, and ready to burst.)

I didn’t pause. I didn’t greet. I didn’t even blink longer than a second. But as I passed her on the stairs, ascending while she stood unmoving, my eyes—dark and sunken—dragged over her like a scalpel dragged across warm flesh.

I reached my door. My key slid in. My hand didn’t shake.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

And then I just stood there. The magazine slid from under my arm and hit the floor like it no longer mattered.

I walked to the mirror. The hallway mirror. The one I avoid unless I’m sleepwalking or lost.

I stared. Not at myself—but at the idea of myself. My neck felt tight. My chest, hollowed.

“She’s not real,” I whispered. My voice didn’t sound like mine.

But the back of my neck was prickling like someone had breathed against it. I didn’t feel watched. I felt studied. Flayed. Touched in the mind.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, no maybe decades, I didn’t feel alone.

I smiled.

Just a little.

And not the kind of smile you see. The kind you taste like metal in your mouth. The kind you feel under the skin, just before you bleed.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

[gxhana]

How about some alt mode nsfw. How would it happen. Reader is female. Would she tease him by touching his protoform that he uses a holoform or would he stop and make her get out before having her. TLK version of him.

Chrome and Fire (TLK!Optimus Prime x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: smut, Daddy kink, orgasm, Size Difference, overstimulation.

The low rumble of his engine sent shivers down your spine as you sat in the cab of his alt mode, your fingers trailing lazily over the smooth leather seat. The night air was thick with heat, the faint scent of fuel and metal mixing with the lingering aroma of the earth beneath his tires. You knew you were pushing your luck, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Your hand slid lower, caressing the polished dashboard, fingertips teasing over the seams where his protoform lurked beneath the steel plating.

“Do you know what you’re doing, little one?” His voice growled through the speakers, low and edged with something dangerous.

Your lips curled into a smirk. “Just admiring you, Prime. Is that a crime?”

A deep rev vibrated through the seat, a warning.

“I suggest you stop,” he rumbled, but there was no real bite in it.

You didn’t listen. You traced the curve of the gear shift, the metal subtly warmer than the rest of his frame, pressing your palm against it just to feel him react.

The next second, the seatbelt locked tight across your chest. The door beside you clicked open.

“Out.”

Your breath hitched, thighs pressing together instinctively at the raw command in his voice. He rarely used that tone unless he was done holding back.

You obeyed, stepping out onto the dirt road, heart hammering. Before you could say anything, the ground beneath you shifted. The transformation was swift, controlled—plating unfolding, gears clicking, and pistons hissing as his massive form loomed above you, silver and blue catching the dim moonlight.

He crouched slightly, his optics burning down at you. “You seem to have forgotten your place.”

You swallowed hard, every inch of your body tingling as he reached for you, metal fingers curling around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly. His plating shifted slightly, revealing glimpses of the molten, shifting protoform beneath—alive, burning, waiting.

You gasped as he pressed you against the cool surface of his own armor, the contrast against your heated skin making you whimper. His grip was firm, possessive, his optics glowing as he leaned in.

“I will remind you,” he promised, voice a rasp of fire and steel.

And then, he did.

You barely had time to react before his grip tightened, pressing you against the cool metal of his plating. The sheer size of him, the raw power in every movement, made your head spin. His protoform flickered beneath the surface, like molten fire trapped beneath steel, and when his fingers brushed over your thighs, you felt the heat radiating from him.

"You were reckless," he murmured, voice thrumming deep in his chest. "Touching me like that while I was in my alt mode. Do you understand what you've done?"

You swallowed, nails digging into the seams of his armor, gasping as his fingers traced higher. "I—"

A sharp whirring sound cut you off as his plating shifted again, exposing more of the shifting mass beneath, fluid and alive. The contrast was intoxicating—cold, solid steel against the warmth of something far more primal.

He tested your resolve first, running the very tips of his fingers along the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. You trembled, back arching against his frame as your breath hitched. He was slow, deliberate, watching the way you reacted, how your pulse raced beneath his touch.

"You wanted to tease me," he mused, optics burning bright in the dim light. "Now, you're trembling at my mercy."

His voice alone sent a pulse of need through you, but it was nothing compared to the way he handled you—easing you open, pressing against you with the unmistakable promise of something more. His protoform was hot against your skin, shifting as if attuning itself to you, adapting, molding. The sensation was foreign, overwhelming, but you wanted it.

Your fingers clawed at his plating, breathless. "Please…"

The word was all he needed.

The next moment, he pushed forward, stealing the air from your lungs as pleasure surged through you. His hold was unyielding, keeping you exactly where he wanted, letting you feel every inch of him. His movements were controlled at first—measured, teasing—but as your cries grew desperate, his restraint began to fray.

His vents released a deep, heated gust of air as he pressed you tighter against his frame, the friction sending electric jolts through your entire body. His rhythm grew stronger, more possessive, and all you could do was cling to him, lost in the sheer intensity of it.

"Mine," he growled, voice raw with hunger.

The sound alone shattered you.

Your body tensed, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you could hardly breathe. He didn't stop—he drew it out, letting you ride the sensation until you were left trembling, boneless in his grasp.

He grab your little neck just enough for you to choke, he kept his eye contact as he fucked you hard and rough until you cum till you were left dry.

Only then did he ease, his frame humming with satisfaction.

For a long moment, you could only rest against him, catching your breath, feeling the lingering heat of his protoform cooling against your skin. Then, his voice, softer now but still edged with authority:

"Next time, think carefully before tempting me."

Something about the way he said it made you think there would absolutely be a next time.

[gxhana]

Just read your Optimus X reader oneshot. OMG! I have always wanted someone to write what would happen with any type of reason followed by consequence. You wrote it! If you take requests, I might have some for you.

I'm all ears! Send them in!

[gxhana]

Malfunction (Optimus Prime X Human!Fem Reader)

Summary: A strange Cybertronian signal infiltrates Optimus’s systems, overriding his usual restraint and amplifying his sensory responses. Every sound, every touch, every thought of you sends unbearable waves of pleasure through his frame. He resists at first—but when you touch him, even accidentally, his control snaps.

Warnings: AI corruption, Size Difference, smut, curse words, transformer x human sex, rough sex, rough oral sex (female receiving), overstimulation, brutal thrusting, breeding, full penetration, degradation, forced stretching, desperate Optimus, slight dub con, dirty talk

The strange Cybertronian signal has been affecting Optimus all day, his body tense, his voice thick with static-laced restraint. You notice the way his optics flicker whenever you get too close, the way his massive hands flex as if he’s holding himself back.

"Something… is wrong," he finally confesses, voice strained. "Every sensation is… amplified. You—" His optics darken, tracking the way you shift under his intense gaze. "I cannot focus when you are near."

And then, you make a mistake.

You touch him.

The instant your fingers graze his heated plating, a deep growl erupts from his chassis. His entire frame shudders, and his massive hands shoot out, grabbing you, caging you against him. His optics burn into you, his vents cycling erratically.

"You shouldn’t have done that." His voice is low, almost dangerous, thick with something primal.

Before you can react, he’s lifting you—effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing—pressing you against the cool metal wall of the Autobot base. The size difference is staggering; his body dwarfs yours completely, his massive frame surrounding you, pressing you down, trapping you in his overwhelming presence.

"I can’t stop," he groans, his servo sliding under your clothes, fingers dragging roughly over your bare skin. His touch is hot, desperate, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. "I need to taste you."

He doesn’t wait for permission.

You gasp as he lowers you, his enormous frame sinking down, positioning you exactly where he wants you. His optics flicker, scanning you with predatory intent as he spreads you open, his thick digits gripping your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

His glossa (Cybertronian tongue) is bigger than it should be, hot and flexible, pressing against your aching heat in long, devastating strokes. The size difference makes everything overwhelming—his sheer power, the way he holds you in place, how easily he could devour you whole if he wanted to.

"So small… so fragile… and yet you take it so well," he groans, voice vibrating through your core.

His grip tightens, his massive hands keeping you spread open as he ravages you, his pace rough, insatiable. His deep growls send shockwaves through your body, his mouth working you open with relentless precision.

He’s too big, too strong, too much, and yet you can’t stop screaming his name.

He doesn’t stop when you come. He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, the taste of you only makes him hungrier. His deep, reverberating purr vibrates through you as he buries his face deeper between your thighs, dragging another orgasm out of you before you’ve even recovered from the first.

"Again," he commands, voice dark and wrecked with need. "You’re not done yet."

Your overstimulated whimpers only make him more desperate, his grip tightening as he devours you, utterly addicted to the sounds you make, to the way you break under his touch.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, your body wrecked from the intensity of his mouth. But Optimus isn’t done. Not even close.

His massive fingers stroke over your slick thighs, spreading you wider, his optics dark with hunger. His vents stutter as he towers over you once again, his sheer size pressing down on you.

"That was only the beginning," he growls, his massive form caging you against the wall. "Now… let’s see how much more you can take."

The sheer heat of him makes you shudder. His panel shifts with a mechanical hiss, and fuck, he’s huge. Thick, ridged plating lined with Cybertronian biolights, far too big for a human body—yet he’s determined to make you take it anyway.

"You’re going to stretch for me," he rasps, pressing the tip against your slick entrance, the difference in size making you whimper. "It’s going to hurt, little one… but you’ll take it."

He doesn’t ease in. He forces his way inside.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as his massive shaft pushes in, spreading you wider than should be possible. The stretch is unbearable, your body resisting, but Optimus doesn’t stop. His grip on your hips tightens, pinning you down as he forces every thick inch inside.

"Look at you," he groans, voice laced with raw lust. "So fucking small, struggling to take my cock."

You claw at his plating, nails scratching uselessly against the metal, but he only laughs, a deep, dark sound vibrating through you.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?" he mocks, thrusting another inch inside, making you scream. "You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to be fucking ruined by me."

The stretch is unbearable, your body too tight, but the pleasure is just as overwhelming. He’s grinding against nerves you didn’t even know existed, forcing your body to adjust to his impossible size.

"Pathetic little human," he growls, voice thick with static-laced pleasure. "Crying like you can’t take it— but look at you. You’re dripping all over my cock, sucking me in like a desperate little whore."

Your mind is spinning, your body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being filled so completely. Every slow, brutal thrust forces another choked gasp from your lips.

And then—he starts moving for real.

Optimus doesn’t hold back. Once he’s inside, once he feels the way you squeeze around him, something snaps.

"I’m done being gentle."

His grip tightens, and then he slams into you.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your body jerking against the wall as he drives his cock in deep, his sheer strength keeping you pinned. The brutal stretch is too much, your mind dissolving into raw pleasure as he pounds into you with reckless force.

"Fucking take it," he snarls, thrusting harder, his metal body unyielding, slamming you into the wall with every brutal snap of his hips. "You’re mine. Made to take my cock. Nothing else fucking matters."

His engine roars, his frame shaking with the effort of holding back from completely breaking you. But even as he ruins you, he keeps talking, his deep, growling voice making you clench around him.

"Listen to yourself," he huffs, pressing his forehead against yours, optics locked onto your wrecked expression. "Whimpering, crying— and yet you keep spreading your legs for me. You love this, don’t you? You love being fucking wrecked by something this big."

You can’t even speak. Every rough, punishing thrust sends shockwaves through your body, your nails digging into his plating.

"You were made for this," he groans, his pace brutal, his thick shaft stretching you past your limit. "Made to be fucking bred by me."

That’s what finally breaks you.

Your orgasm slams into you with blinding force, your body spasming around him, clenching so tight he growls, his own movements turning ragged. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing from the pleasure.

"I’m not done," he growls, pressing his forehead against yours. "Not until I’ve filled you. Not until you’re leaking with my transfluid, dripping with proof that you belong to me."

His movements grow desperate, his thrusts turning animalistic, his deep moans vibrating against your skin. He’s close—his vents stuttering, his fingers bruising your skin as he slams into you with reckless force.

"Gonna fill you up," he groans, thrusting deep. "Gonna fucking ruin you."

You’re still shaking from your first orgasm when his final thrust slams inside, his entire frame locking up. His grip tightens, and then—heat.

Liquid metal warmth floods your core as he comes, a deep, wrecked growl tearing from his throat. His overload is violent, his entire frame trembling as he pumps you full, his transfluid so much that it leaks out, dripping down your thighs.

He doesn’t move for a moment, his massive frame shuddering. Then, his grip loosens, and he pulls out, watching with dark optics as his thick release spills from your stretched, ruined hole.

"Look at that," he murmurs, his fingers gathering the mess between your thighs. "So full of me."

Even now, his optics burn with hunger.

"I hope you’re not too tired," he warns, voice dark and dangerous. "Because I’m not nearly finished with you."

[gxhana]

A Bet's a Bet (Sub!Joel Miller X Dom!Fem Reader) Oneshot

Summary: You and Joel make a bet during patrol—whoever spots the most infected gets to be in charge for the night. Joel smirks, confident in his ability, but when the final count comes in, he realizes he’s lost and you don’t let him forget it.

Warnings: Degradation, praise kink, power play, bondage, overstimulation, pegging, female body worship, oral sex (female receiving), edging, teasing, breath play, spit play (male receiving), rough sex, gagging, choking, slapping.

“You’re gonna regret this,” Joel says, cocky as ever, as he adjusts his rifle strap over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes, nudging his boot with yours as you both make your way back into Jackson. “You keep saying that, but last I checked, I counted four infected, and you got what? Two?”

His jaw clenches. He hates losing.

But a bet’s a bet.

The moment you shut the door to your shared cabin, you round on him.

"You are under my control now, baby" you say. Joel hesitates, lips parting as if to protest, but you tilt your head, daring him to disobey.

“You lost, baby,” you remind him, stepping closer, your fingers grazing his jaw. “And I always collect my winnings.”

You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch against his thighs as he glares at you from across the room.

“Aw, poor baby,” you mock, stepping closer, dragging your fingers under his chin. “Mad that I beat you?”

His nostrils flare, his pride fighting tooth and nail against the truth.

You press your thumb against his lips. “Say it, Joel.”

His throat bobs. “You—”

SLAP.

His head snaps to the side, a deep groan rattling in his chest.

“Try again,” you purr, gripping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

His pupils blow wide.

“I lost,” he grits out, his cock already hard against his jeans.

You smirk. “Good boy.”

Joel doesn’t fight when you push him onto the bed, his broad frame tense beneath you.

You take your time stripping him, pulling his clothes off piece by piece, running your fingers down his exposed skin—teasing, never giving him what he wants.

Then, you tie him up. Wrists bound, chest rising and falling too fast.

You straddle his waist, dragging your nails over his chest, watching him twitch.

“Look at you,” you hum, rolling your hips just enough to make his cock jolt against your stomach. “Big, bad Joel Miller. Tied up like a desperate little thing.”

His fists clench.

“Bet you love this, don’t you?” you taunt, leaning down, your lips brushing his. “Being completely at my mercy?”

His silence earns him a slap.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from his throat.

Then, softly— “Yes, ma’am.”

You grin. Now we’re getting somewhere.

You take your time with him.

Your mouth skims down his body, leaving open-mouthed kisses, bites, marks.

His thighs tremble beneath you. His hands flex against the restraints, testing the knots.

Then—finally—you wrap your fingers around his cock.

His entire body shudders.

But you don’t give him what he wants. Oh no. You stroke him slow, too slow, barely a touch, letting your breath ghost over his flushed tip.

“Goddamn tease,” he grits out, tugging at the restraints.

You tighten your grip on his cock just enough to make him gasp. “That’s not very polite.”

His head falls back against the pillows. “I—”

You twist your wrist and watch him fall apart.

“Fuck, fuck—please,” he gasps.

You keep stroking him fast and rough but every time he gets close, every time his stomach tenses and his breath catches, you stop.

“Goddammit,” Joel groans, fists clenching in frustration.

You hum, tapping your fingers against his thigh. “Poor baby. Maybe if you beg like you mean it, I’ll let you come.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “Please,” he rasps.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

His pride fights him. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his body trembles under your control.

But he breaks.

“Please, darlin’,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Please, need it, need you, I—”

You smile.

There he is.

You spit into his open mouth, watching as he shudders.

“Swallow,” you order.

He does. Good boy.

You lean in, wrapping a hand around his throat, pressing just enough to make his breath stutter.

“You gonna be good for me?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, breathless. “Yes, ma’am.”

SLAP.

His lips part on a choked gasp.

“Words, Joel.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

You smile.

You move up his body, thighs caging his head.

“You know what to do,” you murmur, gripping his hair.

Joel doesn’t hesitate.

He groans into you, tongue lapping at your soaked folds, his hips rolling against nothing as he eats you like a starving man.

“Fuck, that’s it,” you praise, tugging his hair. “So good with your mouth, baby.”

Joel whimpers.

You grind down harder, making sure he can barely breathe. You want him desperate.

And when he moans—when he licks, sucks, fucks you with his tongue—you pull tighter, choking him with your thighs.

“Breathe when I let you,” you command.

His groan is pure submission.

You deny him air, dragging it out, riding his face until you come with a shuddering cry.

And when you finally let him breathe, he gasps—a wrecked, desperate sound.

“Good boy,” you murmur, petting his hair. “So eager to please.”

He shivers.

You don’t stop. Not when he whimpers, sensitive and squirming, his cock still throbbing.

He begged for this. You’re just making sure he understands.

“Too much?” you ask mockingly, pressing soft kisses along his inner thigh.

He nods frantically, body twitching.

But when you grip his cock again, he whines.

“I don’t think you mean that, baby,” you whisper, running your tongue up his length. “Look at you. Still so hard.”

His thighs shake. He’s so fucked out, so ruined beneath you.

But you own him.

Joel’s so hard it must hurt, cock twitching against his stomach, aching for relief.

But you’re not done with him yet.

You reach into the drawer, pulling out the harness and your strap.

His breath catches.

“You know the rules,” you purr, dragging your lubed-up fingers down his spine.

He shudders when you press one inside. Then another.

His cock jerks.

“So needy,” you mock, curling your fingers. “Like you need this.”

Joel whines.

And when you finally press inside—slow, stretching him open— his back arches.

You pause, letting him feel all of it.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

You pull out slow, then thrust back in—watching him fall apart.

His fists clench, thighs trembling.

“You take me so well,” you coo, rolling your hips. “Such a good little toy for me.”

Joel moans, his pride shattering.

“Say it,” you demand, gripping his throat.

He gasps, barely able to form words.

“Yours,” he finally chokes out. “I’m yours.”

You smile.

Then, you fuck him until he cries, until he is begging you to stop fucking him like an animal. He screams on top of his lungs, it sounds more like he is screaming as if he is being murdered. You shove the pillow on his face, he struggles a lot against the restraints.

"Please, please, no more, Ma'am, Ma'am. I can't--" SLAP.

His body shakes, his thighs trembling, completely overstimulated.

But you don’t stop.

“You begged for this,” you remind him, reaching for his cock, stroking him in time with your thrusts.

His breath stutters.

“Oh, baby,” you mock, dragging your nails down his stomach. “Too much?”

He nods frantically.

But when you slap his thigh, he moans.

“You’re such a slut for this,” you murmur, kissing his flushed cheek.

And when you wrap your fingers around his throat—pressing, choking him just enough—he comes with a wrecked, gasping sob.

Completely ruined.

You slap him again, watching the way his cock jerks, the way he grips his restraints and struggles against them.

“You like that, don’t you?” you taunt, grabbing his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You love being used like this. Love being mine.”

His lips part, breathless.

“Yes—fuck—yes, ma’am. Please let me cum, please. I am begging you." He sounds almost like a child begging their parent for the toy they really want. For Joel, cumming for you was more important than anything in this world.

You thrust into him again, filling him up while stroking him faster, his head snaps back, a wrecked sob spilling from his lips.

“I—fuck, fuck—”

“Come on now, you can cum” you whisper, wrapping a hand around his throat, pressing just enough.

His eyes roll back.

And when you spit into his open mouth, watching him swallow it down like the good boy he is—

Joel screams.

His whole body locks up, thighs trembling, cock pulsing in your grip as he comes so hard he sobs.

You don’t stop until he breaks completely.

When you finally untie him, his hands immediately grab for you.

His fingers, rough and desperate, trace your skin like he’s starving for it.

“Need to taste you,” he breathes.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. “Then get to work.”

And Joel does.

His mouth is everywhere—his tongue lapping at your soaked folds, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking just the way you like.

When he moans against you, when he grinds against the mattress like a needy thing, you grab a fistful of his hair and pull.

He groans. Loves it.

“That’s a good boy,” you purr, rocking against his face. “Keep going.”

And he does. Until you break. Until you’re trembling above him, thighs clamped around his head, body shaking from the force of your orgasm.

Only then—when you finally pull away, breathless—does he collapse onto the bed, utterly spent.

You grin, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “Not so cocky now, are you?”

Joel just groans, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face against your stomach. “Shut up.”

You laugh, kissing the top of his head.

“A bet’s a bet, baby.”

And you always win.

[gxhana]

Submissive Yandere! Gojo Satoru x Sadistic!Reader – Headcanons

Summary: Gojo might be "The Strongest," but with you? He's nothing more than a pathetic, obedient mess who exists solely for your amusement.

Warnings: Degradation, male submission, femdom, sadism, devotion, yandere behavior, curse words.

The Thrill of Submission

Gojo thrives on control, but there’s something about the way you take it from him that leaves him utterly addicted.

The moment you put him in his place? His cocky smirk falters, and his pupils dilate with pure excitement.

You make him kneel, tug his hair, and drag your nails down his skin, whispering in his ear how pathetic he looks when he submits to you.

“Tch, and here I thought the ‘strongest’ would put up a fight. You’re all bark, no bite, huh?”

Breaking His Ego

The teasing, the flirting, the arrogance—it all disappears when you degrade him. He lives for it.

“Look at you, Satoru. All high and mighty, but the moment I put you in your place, you turn into a desperate little mess.”

Pull him by his tie, yank his blindfold off, make him stare into your eyes as you humiliate him.

The more you remind him that he’s nothing but yours to break, the more he shivers with anticipation.

Possessiveness & Control

You don’t tolerate his usual flirty antics. If he so much as looks at someone else too long, he’s punished.

“I don’t think you understand, Satoru. You don’t get to act like a slut unless I tell you to.”

You leave marks on him—not just scratches, but bruises, bites, reminders that he belongs to you.

He wants to be owned. He wants to be possessed. He wants to be broken down completely and rebuilt by your hands.

He’s obsessed with you, to the point where even thinking about disappointing you makes his stomach twist.

The Aftermath—A Completely Ruined Man

By the time you’re done with him, Gojo is no longer the cocky sorcerer everyone knows. He’s your obedient, needy little toy.

He craves your attention, even if it comes in the form of insults or punishment.

The world sees him as untouchable, but you? You make him crawl for your affection.

And the best part? He loves every second of it.

[gxhana]

Gojo Satoru as your boyfriend would include:

Affection & Love Language

He is extremely touchy—always draping himself over you, resting his head in your lap, or casually slinging an arm around your shoulders.

Loves to poke your cheeks, boop your nose, and flick your forehead just to annoy you.

Big on PDA—he has no shame about kissing you in public, holding your hand, or calling you pet names in front of everyone.

His love language is physical touch and words of affirmation—he constantly reminds you that you’re the best thing in his life.

Flirty & Playful Behavior

He flirts 24/7, even when you’ve been dating for a long time.

Uses the worst pickup lines just to see you roll your eyes.

If you try to flirt back, he’ll either pretend to swoon dramatically or get surprisingly flustered.

Teases you nonstop, but the moment you tease him back? He’s a mess.

Protective but Not Overbearing

While he jokes around a lot, he’s dead serious when it comes to your safety.

Will casually remind you that "Nothing can hurt you as long as I’m around."

If anyone dares to mess with you? They’ll be dealing with The Strongest.

That being said, he won’t stop you from being independent—he loves seeing you strong and capable.

Spoils You Rotten

Will randomly drop expensive gifts in your lap like it’s nothing. “What do you mean I shouldn’t have bought this? You liked it, so I got it. Simple.”

Buys matching outfits and insists on wearing them.

Takes you on extravagant dates—fancy rooftop dinners, surprise vacations, spontaneous late-night dessert runs.

Gojo Being… Well, Gojo

Gojo Sleeps with his blindfold on, and you have to stop him from walking into walls in the morning.

Always tries to get out of trouble by flashing his most charming smile.

Eats way too many sweets and will use you as an excuse. ("I got these for us!" Proceeds to eat 90% of them.)

Absolutely dramatic when sick—he demands cuddles, soup, and constant attention.

Soft & Vulnerable Moments

Despite his goofy nature, he sometimes drops his guard with you.

Holds you tightly at night, whispering how much he loves you.

Admits he’s scared of losing you, but you always reassure him that you’re not going anywhere.

When he’s feeling down, he doesn’t ask for comfort outright, but he’ll subtly lean into your touch, resting his head on your shoulder.